Novice
by SailOnSilvergirl
Summary: Small brain, large gun, undisciplined, unpredictable – a novice criminal can be a dangerous thing.


John took a nasty kick to the ribs, and he rolled to his side, gasping, instinctively curling into himself to present a smaller target. He fought to get his breath back as he struggled to his knees.

Sherlock grimaced, straining against the ropes on his wrists, but there was no give either to them or to the metal rungs of the chair.

The kick had been unnecessary, the result of an 18-stone, 190-centimeter novice glorying in new-found power. Small brain, large gun, undisciplined, unpredictable, dangerous. Sherlock quickly assessed John's condition, read his face, his posture, calculated the angle and force of the kick from the size 44 boots, the obvious inexperience of the dolt dolling out the blow. Merely badly bruised ribs, then.

But John seemed slower to rally than Sherlock would have expected. John groaned, pulling his left elbow and arm in tightly against his injured ribcage, huffing out his breath, taking what time he could to clear his thinking. He shot a glance at the gun that was leveled at him, then at the man's face. He turned to Sherlock, who himself was sporting the beginnings of a wicked shiner and an abraded cheek. John could see the concern etched in his friend's face, started to say something, but—

"Get up. My instructions are to bring you back, and if I don't, it's my arse. So I need you walking, real normal like, not attracting attention, and —"

"If you needed me moving, you shouldn't have bloody well broken my ribs."

_Ah, not just bruised, then. Broken,_ Sherlock thought._ Perhaps I miscalculated the trajectory—_

"Up. Now," the man demanded.

"Just give me a minute, I need a minute," John whispered, not quite pleading. Sherlock stiffened. Was John even more seriously injured?

"One little flick to the ribs and you need a minute, do ya?" the man said with disgust. "Some soldier you are. So much for the great Captain Watson."

John wasn't going to be drawn in. "If I move too much, I could puncture my lung," he panted, trying to be reasonable. "And then I'll be of little use to you. I'm a doctor, for God's sake, I know what—", but the thug was having none of it, and fisted John across the back of his head, hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to topple him.

"Oh, like that's going to help."

The gunman had had enough. He lunged forward, grabbing John by the back of his collar, and hoisted him roughly to his feet. John cried out, hugging both arms to his ribs._"Christ! _Now…you've…done…it._" _

"John!"

The doctor was doubled over now, knees bent, breath rapid, shallow, and horribly strident. His attacker looked genuinely frightened. "What the hell—"

"Warned you," John rasped.

Sherlock cocked his head. He'd seen John with a punctured lung before. Something was different this time. The detective focused his attention on the shrill, soft whistle that sounded on each inhale, the harsh wheeze on each exhale. His colour was pale, not cyanotic, only the faintest sheen of sweat, no rising anxiety, but… What was John hiding? John locked eyes with Sherlock, trying to communicate something. _Think, Sherlock! _ Ruptured spleen? No, wrong side. Heart? No, if his heart were damaged, he couldn't still be standing. The cretin was watching too closely for John to risk any overt signal, but…

John let out a piercing scream.

Sherlock cried out in alarm, thrashing at his restraints. Between his frantic call and John's cry of pain, the man before them became unhinged as both his criminal career and arse were quickly becoming history. His gun hand wavered, lowered fractionally and he—

John uncoiled like a viper, and using the lunge from his crouch to boost his speed and power, he landed a spot-on, perfectly executed chisel-fist strike to the center of the man's throat. The man wordlessly crumbled to the ground and the gun skittered across the floor.

If he didn't have broken ribs before, he sure as hell did after that bit of acrobatics, John thought. He straightened to his full height, took a deep noiseless breath, and surveyed the unconscious man at his feet. He nodded, satisfied, then turned to a stunned Sherlock. "You can close your mouth now," John said.

"You were faking!" Sherlock beamed, clapping his hands behind his back with glee.

"_Acting, _Sherlock. I prefer to call it acting."

"O Captain, my Captain!" Sherlock couldn't stop grinning. "That was positively brilliant!"

"Yes, well, I do have my moments." He allowed his arms to drift back to his aching ribs. A soft "Ow" escaped his lips as he bent to untie Sherlock's wrists.

"Ow?"

"Well, it does hurt a little." Sherlock chuckled as his wrists came free. "Well, it does," John insisted.

"Mine hurts, too."

"Not as much."

Sherlock chortled louder. "Does so."

"Stop that, Sherlock. It'll hurt if you make me laugh. I'm warning you."

"Acting, hmmm. You should get an award."

John started to giggle.

"Ow!"


End file.
